


Renewal of Spirit

by LylaRivers



Series: The One Who Blesses [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley has chronic pain, M/M, Worth noting that crowley swears a lot in this fic, crowley was raphael, good Omens is Jewish and so am i, im just gonna project all over this demon and NO ONE CAN STOP ME, so uh... be aware of potty mouth demons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-19 05:41:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22406170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LylaRivers/pseuds/LylaRivers
Summary: With not a small amount of effort, he rolls his body over to the angel, and drapes himself around that delightfully warm and soft body. The deep, horrible ache in his body doesn’t subside, but at least his mind is distracted by thoughts of soft angels.Crowley has a Bad Pain Day. Aziraphale helps.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The One Who Blesses [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612474
Comments: 11
Kudos: 256
Collections: Archangel Crowley, Good Omens is Jewish and so are we, In Which Crowley Has Chronic Pain





	Renewal of Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who’s back on their Jewish Good Omens Bullshit! It’s this girl! Title is from the Mi Sheberach prayer, the Jewish prayer for healing.

Crowley wakes up, and immediately knows it’s going to be a Bad Day. 

There’s an ache, deep in his bones- a dull throb that radiates from his hips and his back out to his extremities, leaving a miserable pulse everywhere it touches. It  _ hurts:  _ miserably, awfully. The thought of getting up sounds like a torture reserved for the most wretched, horrific creatures in Hell. 

There were no indicators. Why did it become so bad overnight? A pain like this gets worked up to- a big miracle, or a lot of walking, or a sudden change… 

Or a sudden change in barometric pressure. 

Crowley waves a hand weakly. Even snapping his fingers sounds hard right now. The heavy curtains fly open with his miracle, revealing a fresh dusting of snow outside his window. 

Mother _ fucker _ . 

Well, that’s just fan-fucking-tastic. The first snow of the year has always been miserable. If it were given to him to choose his wiles, Crowley would spread demonic tidings near the equator. He’d hang out in a desert, soaking in sun and radiating out evil. 

Two things kill this glorious pipe dream. Hell is utterly preoccupied with the population of Europe and the Middle East. White People picked up Christianity like some religious plague, and Hell tends to focus hardest on those whose beliefs fit their reality. Besides, it’s not as if the lack of corruptible,  _ Christian _ souls in Africa is for a lack of  _ trying _ . 

As for item number two? It dresses itself in a hideous amount of tartan, has a propensity for collecting first editions of books, and has a deep love of cocoa. 

(Aziraphale. He won’t leave London for long because London is where Aziraphale is based.)

Crowley’s phone buzzes. Speak of the devil… er…. angel. He pokes the ‘accept’ button. 

“Crowley! You’re awake!” Aziraphale exclaims. 

“Yeah?” 

“Only, it’s been a week, and I was starting to get worried,” Aziraphale tuts. 

“It has?” Crowley asks. His brain is still sleep-fogged, and he’s having a harder time processing than average. 

<Is the weather bothering you terribly?> Aziraphale asks, switching to Hebrew. 

Crowley loves his angel. 

<Hurts,> Crowley mutters. 

<Do you want company?> Aziraphale asks. 

Oh. Being held by Aziraphale is better than Eden’s sunniest rock, better than a near boiling bath. <Please,> Crowley begs. 

A few seconds later, his angel stumbles out of the phone. “Oh dear. That is  _ terribly _ unpleasant,” Aziraphale tuts, brushing tiny dust flecks off his jacket. 

“‘Zira?”

“You sounded so miserable over the phone, I didn’t want you to wait!” 

A warm feeling, not unlike Grace, spreads from the center of Crowley’s chest. He loves his utterly ridiculous angel. 

“Come  _ here _ ,” Crowley mutters, rather than trying to vocalize his feelings. 

Aziraphale slips out of his jacket and shoes, and settles himself into the bed next to Crowley. “Come on then, you silly serpent.”

Crowley doesn’t need to be told twice. With not a small amount of effort, he rolls his body over to the angel, and drapes himself around that delightfully warm and soft body. The deep, horrible ache in his body doesn’t subside, but at least his mind is distracted by thoughts of soft angels. 

“‘S nice,” Crowley mumbles, as the angel’s warmth seeps into his very bones. 

Aziraphale runs his fingers through his hair. “Are you comfortable, my dear?”

“Yessss,” Crowley hisses, letting his words slur into sibilance.

“Good.” The hand not currently working its way through his scalp comes to rest on his back, and begins to knead at the muscles in his shoulders. A low moan escapes his lips as Aziraphale pushes his fingers into the tight muscles in his neck. Aziraphale pauses, hand still against his back. “Crowley?”

“‘S good angel,” Crowley mumbles. 

Aziraphale returns to his self appointed task, bringing both hands to bear on overly tight muscles. The heavy pressure hurts, sending dull throbs through his shoulders- but it hurts in the best way possible. His muscles ache with the pressure and release, as the angel attacks the knotted muscles in an attempt to make them relax. 

Aziraphale works for several minutes, arms encircling Crowley in a cocoon of safety. “Want me to stay like this, or move so I can give you a proper back rub?” he asks at length. 

“Firssst. Hurtsss too much.”

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale agrees. His fingers move in slow, steady circles along Crowley’s back. “You just rest now, darling. I’ll take care of you.”

Crowley lets his eyes flicker shut. “Love you.”

“I love you too, dearest,” Aziraphale replies. He presses a gentle kiss to Crowley’s forehead. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

Perhaps not such a bad day after all. Crowley lets himself be lulled to sleep by the warmth of his angel, curled up in the safest shelter he can imagine. 

***

Awareness returns slowly. As always, the first sensation is one of sharp, throbbing pain. The second thing that he’s aware of, however, is the gentle rise and fall of his pillow. 

Crowley blinks his eyes open, ignoring the sting of pain. Sometime while sleeping, he’s turned himself into a snake and curled completely around Aziraphale. 

Crowley wills himself back into human shape. The pain is never quite as bad when he’s a snake, lending credence to the belief that the pain is Her punishment for daring to have legs. Still, it never goes away, even when he’s a snake. 

Plus, snakes can’t hug quite like human shaped beings do. 

“How are you feeling, dear?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Eh. It’s bearable.”

“I’m so sorry, my dear.”

“You didn’t personally curse me, angel. The Boss Lady Herself cursed me, so there’s just nothing to do but grin and bear it.”

“Are you quite sure there’s nothing I could do to help?” Aziraphale asks. 

“There’s really nothing to be done. Besides, you’re still an angel, and I’m still a demon, our respective sides’ studied indifference notwithstanding. You’re still Holy.”

Aziraphale stills, his usually expressive face shutting down. “You think I would hurt you?” His tone is perfectly flat, not conveying anything at all. 

_ Fix it you monster! _ “I’m not saying you’d do it on purpose!” 

“I would never!”

“Aziraphale, I’m not made to be fixed! This is a punishment, remember? ‘Because thou hast done this, cursed art tho from among all cattle, and from among all beasts of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life’ and so on? You don’t see me crawling around, so I have to be punished some other way for having the  _ temerity  _ to walk upright.”

“The Almighty is not so cruel.”

Crowley lets out a bitter laugh. “Angel, where have you been? She’s nothing  _ but _ cruel! The Flood? Generations of Jews as slaves, doing hard labor for cruel Pharaohs? The fucking  _ Shoah _ ?”

“It’s…”

“Don’t fucking  _ ineffeble _ me!”

“I was rather going to say it’s doubtful She thinks on such a small scale as to specifically inflict long term pain on one particular person,” Aziraphale says primly. 

“She literally made me to clean up Her messes.” Aziraphale gives him a blank look. “The fucking Archangel of healing, remember?”

Aziraphale sighs. His bright blue eyes look sad, full almost to overflowing. “I don’t want to see you suffer, Crowley.”

“Existence is suffering, angel.”

“But it doesn’t have to be!”

“Says who? The Almighty? That’s rather naive of you, Aziraphale. Let’s face it, my entire mission statement is based on the fact that life is pain. Why would She need a healer if life wasn’t meant to be full of pain?” 

“Rather, I think that it’s a promise of hope- even if life is full of pain, help is out there.”

“I can’t… ugh. There’s nothing that can be done. I’ve tried every thrice damned treatment, medication, and compensation that humanity has ever developed. Nothing works. The best I can hope for is to wait out, and that it’s better in the morning. This is why I didn’t tell you, angel. You have such a strong belief in Good, and nothing about this or me is  _ Good _ .”

“My dear, you are the best Good I could ever hope to have,” Aziraphale offers gently. “You are far better than all the Heavenly Host, despite the fact that it was far harder for you to retain your Goodness. You remain, by far one of Her best creations, and I will never understand this punishment She has laid at your feet.”

“Don’t… don’t say that, angel.”

“Whyever not? It’s true.”

“Don’t question Her. Not for me. I can’t be the reason you Fall.”

“Oh, Crowley. If I Fall, it would be for far greater sins than loving you,” Aziraphale says, stroking Crowley’s hair soothingly. 

Crowley sits bolt upright, body aching in protest. “Don’t joke about that, angel!”

“About Falling? Come now, dear. I’ve been doing your temptations for millenia. If I was going to Fall, surely performing temptations for Hell is a greater sin than loving a demon. After all, the heart cannot stop loving who it loves.”

“We don’t have hearts, Aziraphale.”

“It isn’t wrong to love, Crowley. How can it be?” Aziraphale continues his soothing ministrations at Crowley’s back. Crowley gives up, and lies back against the angel. 

“It is when the object of that love is damned.”

“Love covers over all wrongs,” Aziraphale says primly. 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Don’t quote Proverbs at me. We both know that shit is meant for humans.”

“The point of the revolution was that those of angelic stock are no better than humans,” Aziraphale says. “Her Word is still the Word, with no limitations on who it applies to.”

Aziraphale has his earnest face on- the one Crowley knows he has no defense against. He abruptly resigns himself to losing this argument. “I think that being abruptly drop-kicked out of Heaven by Love Herself would suggest being unlovable,” he says, just to be argumentative. 

“Loss of Grace doesn’t necessitate loss of Love,” Aziraphale says. “And I love you very much, my dear.”

“Ngk.” Crowley very much has no way of responding to that. “Love you too, angel.”

“Get some rest, dearest,” Aziraphale says, holding him close. “I know that being in pain is exhausting.”

It’s hard to argue with staying in bed all day with his angel, particularly when it’s snowing outside and the snake in him wants nothing more than to hibernate. “Stay with me?” Crowley asks. 

“Always, my dear. Go to sleep, and dream of whatever you like best. And I’ll be here when you wake.”

Crowley wants to say that the angel is what he likes best, and he doesn’t need to dream because he already has it, but the miracle has already taken effect, and he drifts off before he can put the thought into words. 

He dreams of soft lips brushing his forehead, and a low female voice that says “I love you”.


End file.
